


"shout at the wall."

by Croiissance



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Dadza, Eating Disorders, Heavy Angst, Hurt Phil Watson (Video Blogging RPF), I'm Sorry, Non-Linear Narrative, Trigger Warning - Please be careful!, Wilbur Soot - Freeform, Wilbur Soot Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:27:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28715721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Croiissance/pseuds/Croiissance
Summary: Wilbur just wanted to be loved.By a permanent lover, by family, by himself.And even though he was told every day that he was appreciated, those were just people who pitied him. Fans were just superficial; it wasn't like he was going to meet them. They would come and go, look back at him and cringe, wondering what their past selves were doing with their lives, watching his videos.In other words, nobody ever stayed.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Kudos: 85





	"shout at the wall."

**Author's Note:**

> MAJOR TRIGGER WARNING: BODY IMAGE, EATING DISORDERS, SELF-HATRED  
> Please take care of yourself.

Wilbur just wanted to be loved.

By a permanent lover, by family, by himself.

And even though he was told every day that he was appreciated, those were just people who pitied him. Fans were just superficial; it wasn't like he was going to meet them. They would come and go, look back at him and cringe, wondering what their past selves were doing with their lives, watching his videos.

In other words, nobody ever stayed.

He stared at himself in the mirror, cheeks burning from all the crying he had done on his bed earlier. They stained his face, he discovered.

He didn't feel right in his own skin, dressed in a baggy shirt and small sweatpants. Then again, what would right even be?

"It's just society," he told himself. The more he said it, the more it lost its meaning. So he repeated it more and more. But then it would mean even less.

Wilbur didn't remember when the scale had suddenly decided that he wasn't alright. He was doing so great, he thought. He tried the best he could, so why was none of it helping? Should he sleep more? No, his mother had always called him lazy when he slept in more. Should he eat more?

But it hurt when he did.

And it hurt when it came back up.

To be honest, he just wanted some attention; physical contact, someone to talk to. Someone to tell him they loved him. His parents did, of course, but how would he know if they were just saying it to pity him? They probably were.

He wished he got outside more, even though the England air was unforgivable. His asthma worsened, as did his mental state. When the sun came up, he closed the blinds, and when it was dark, he felt like begging on his knees for some sort of light to help his mood. Sleep was depressing; hugging flattened pillows and mumbling to himself only reminded him of how lonely he was.

He then discovered how accepting the voice in his head gave him a strange sensation in his stomach-- like a warm, curling feeling. It gave him comfort, like something to ground himself on. Shaming himself gave him some sense of rightness. And that in itself was so wrong.

He fell to his knees in front of the mirror, tears spilling in varying sizes. His hands went to grab his chest, gripping his shirt with such force that he thought he would pop a vein.

_'Weak.'_

_'Unstable.'_

_'Maniac.'_

He let out a scream, loud and clear, for all of England to just shrug off. He wanted to be seen; he wanted to stop the voice in his head telling him to end it all and give in to the irresistible thought of freedom.

He would never do it, but it was always a thought.

He was too afraid of the pain.

He wanted too much. He always wanted too much.

_'Selfish.'_

_'Desperate.'_

_'Hopeless.'_

Wilbur crawled across the ground, lungs gasping for breath as he prepared to shout again. "SHUT UP!" he yelled, gripping his hair and violently tugging at it. He felt like he was in an endless void. Almost like the End, except this wasn't a game. This was real life, where he had real things to catch up with, like bills, relationships, palpable pain.

He screamed until his voice was hoarse, mind spinning and hands fumbling as he opened his phone's home screen. He scrambled for the dial, messily pressing the digits that formed Phil's number. His head throbbed, making him hiss. The lights were too bright; he needed water. When had he last drunk water? Yesterday?

"Wilbur? What's wrong, mate? You never call this late."

Wilbur closed his eyes, grasping his neck, trying to say something, but he felt lightheaded.

"Ph..."

===

When Phil found Wilbur in the bathroom, there was a dark bruise on his temple and red indents from where he had violently gripped his neck. A ripped sheet of Prozac pills next to a printed out chart with a messily circled '15.4' lay on the counter.

Phil almost broke down crying, picking up Wil's upper body and clutching him to his own chest. His body was still warm. Blood was still pumping. He would be okay, for now.

_"I didn't know,"_ Phil sobbed.


End file.
